One Last Time
by Lola Spears
Summary: Why did Christine insist on performing one last time for Erik? A different ending for Leroux's book. Warning: Not for Raoul lovers. This will no longer be updated. See profile for explanation.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: This is a Leroux-****based a****ngst fic bordering on horror ****with my own twist on why Christine insisted on performing one last time instead of eloping when Raoul wanted to. **__**I came up with this before But I Don't Know You, Monsieur!, and it was Christine's thought, in this story, of how much easier things might have been had she gone on pretending not to know Raoul that led me start that story.**_  


* * *

"We shall elope after your performance, _immediately _after. Are your bags packed?" Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, asked yet again.

"Yes, Raoul," I repeated half-heartedly. He had gone over his plan ten times in the last hour, and I could repeat his words verbatim by now, with the same inflection he applied each time. My mind was a swirl of emotions at this point. I would be performing in three days' time, but I did not want to run away with Raoul. He had been a childhood friend, and though we had been sweethearts all those years ago, I felt none of the . . . Something was missing when he touched me. When Erik, my beloved angel of music, held me, my heart would race and I'd feel something I'd never felt before.

I feared Erik; that much was true. His strength and intelligence made him a man no one wanted to contend with. His voice had a quality that made it impossible to resist. It was, perhaps, my inability to resist his pull, this hold Erik had over me that instilled such terror in me. There was danger there, in Erik's home, and I was helpless to stop it.

Why did Raoul have to be so stubborn? Why could he not understand that we could not be together? Members of the aristocracy simply did not marry chorus girls! Marrying Raoul meant giving up any hopes I had for a career on the stage.

And my recent bit of success was only thanks to Erik and his tutelage. How could Raoul expect me to abandon the man who'd made me who I am now? How could I leave the man who'd brought me back to life? It was Erik who stayed up nights with me, drying my tears when I so keenly missed my father. Raoul hadn't even tried to keep in touch with me throughout the years. And now, he expected me to give up the life I'd made in Paris for an uncertain future with him?

"Raoul?" I asked timidly. Perhaps I had a chance to make him see reason. I could remind him of his brother's disdain for me and my disdain for causing familial strife. "Must we really elope? Could we not-"

He cut me off before I could finish my sentence. "You _know_ this is how it must be, Little Lotte! If I am to free you from that madman, we must leave! I'd leave _now,_ but you insist on performing one last time _for him!_ Don't you see Christine? You owe him _nothing_!" He was on his knees now, imploring me with those sad blue eyes.

Nothing? I owed him _nothing_? It was to Raoul that I owed nothing. I wasn't moved by the sight of the Vicomte on his knees or his words. How could I marry him? He deserved better than that. He deserved better than me and my fickle heart. So did Erik.

Erik. His very name set my heart a-flutter. I could not leave him. Not like this. When Erik had been on his knees, imploring me to love him, I had been reduced to tears. I had thought I pitied him then, after I had so cruelly removed his mask, but now I knew that it was only the beginning of something far deeper, a bond that would connect us forever.

"I owe him far more than you could ever dream, Monsieur le Vicomte," I murmured.

He released my hands and began pacing the room. "How? You? We were-" He kept choking on his own words. Was reality finally setting in under that fair hair? "You promised me, when we were children, that we would marry one day. Are you breaking that promise?"

"Promise? You would hold me to the promise of a young girl who knew nothing of life . . . or of love? What did we know then? Really? I promised I would always care for you, and I do. But I cannot marry you, Raoul, nor do I intend to elope with you. I _am _sorry." I gazed up at him apologetically. Oh, how much easier would things be if I had simply gone on pretending not to know him that first day?

"_Sorry? _You're sorry? For what? For leading me on all this time? For letting me . . . believe . . . you . . . You _made_ me believe you loved me! Or were all your sweet words just some game to you?"

He was outraged, but I was not afraid. I deserved his diatribe. I'd never made it clear that there could be nothing between us.

But I had also never given him reason to believe that . . . It occurred to me that I had never actually said _yes _to Raoul. I had said something . . . I couldn't recall what exactly I had told him, but I do remember saying that our "engagement" would only last until he left on his polar expedition. He simply took it for granted that I would want to run away with him. I couldn't blame him, though; I had confessed my fear of Erik to him.

It was at that moment that I realised why I had insisted on performing one last time for Erik: it was a way for me to stall for time. While Raoul continued screaming at me, I pondered how I could get word to Erik. Would I have time to let him know what was happening? Would he even be willing to help me after all I'd put him through?


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: I don't normally update my fanfiction anywhere near this often, what with work and all, so don't expect rapid or even regular updates. I'm only taking advantage of a dark mood to continue this quickly.**_

_**This is from Raoul's point of view.**_

I could not believe my ears! The woman I loved - the woman who had _begged_ me to save her! - wanted to sing a "farewell" performance for the very man I was supposed to be rescuing her from! This madman had been extorting money from the managers of the Opera Garnier for decades! Who knew what other crimes he had committed throughout the years? She owed him nothing, yet she would risk everything we have for him. I cannot understand this hold he has over her. One minute, she's crying to me of her terror and loathing and how much she detested him; the next, she tells me of his grand genius and how much he has helped her.

Helped her, indeed. He has brainwashed her and manipulated her from the moment he entered her life! He pretended to be the Angel of Music, for God's sake! He preyed upon her long-held belief that her dear departed father would send an angel to give her music lessons and guard her and guide her. How could she still have been so naïve as to fallen for such a nefarious ploy? Her time in the theatre did not do anything to dispel her superstitions she had already held true; the other dancers and singers had only added to them.

What was I doing with a chorus girl? This wasn't the first time I had wondered what it was about her that enthralled me so. Perhaps it was only those childhood memories that kept my affection for her so strong.

No, it was more than that; it had to be more. It was the way the light played upon her hair, like strands of spun gold and flax glistening in the sun. Her eyes were as clear as the sky had been the day I'd rushed into the Breton sea to rescue her scarf. I can't help but wonder now why that summer continues to mean so much to me. In my anger, I lashed out at Christine for having led me on for so long. I went so far as to remind her of sweet words she spoke to me when we were children playing on the shore.

That was so long ago, and now we are grown . . .

We have changed much since our days as childhood playmates and sweethearts. Over the past few months that I have been frequenting the opera house with my brother, I was able to renew our friendship and become acquainted with the woman she has become. I had fallen in love quite easily with this woman, with her gentle ways and demure air. Society and the rules of nobility be damned, I was going to take her away from the horrors of this . . . this man, this phantom . . . who had so thoroughly twisted her mind that she didn't know what she was saying. She clearly needed guidance lest she succumb once again to his evil whims. I was going to free her from his machinations or die trying.

When she asked if we really had to elope, something inside of me had finally snapped. My brother had said I had a duty to the family to marry well, someone of equal breeding, money, and of a good family; he called my darling Christine my "little baggage." He considered our romance to be nothing more than a passing infatuation to be tolerated until it had run its course. He was a fine one to talk, what with his dalliances with ballerinas, especially La Sorelli. He lavished her with gifts and sweets that should have been reserved for his fiancée, if he ever managed to settle down and choose a respectable wife.

He would begrudge me a marriage based on real love just so he could continue his own ways. I loved my brother dearly, but he really was being unreasonable. I couldn't understand why he was so adamant that I be the one to continue the family name. He was just as capable of marrying and producing an heir to inherit his precious titles!

And when Christine said she "owed" her teacher more than I could imagine, I lost all sense of control. For too long, I had been shackled by the restraints of society. Marrying a chorus girl was not considered proper for someone of my station. I would lose everything, or so Philippe had threatened. Oh, I knew my sisters would assure that I had money to take care of a wife and family no matter what he said, but I couldn't bear to lose my brother. For all his haughtiness and threats, he is family, and we have always been quite close. He is the eldest, the one who took care of me and our sisters after our parents had died.

Christine, on the other hand . . . She seemed to vacillate between wanting to be with me and wanting to reject the world to be with her precious Erik! And there were moments when she seemed not to know her own mind, when I feared she might retreat into some dark abyss of her soul's own making.

I had lost her once, when we'd lost touch after that summer by the sea. I lost her to Erik's manipulations for a time, when he had taken her to his home beneath the opera . . .

I could not lose her again. Especially not to him. I simply had to make her see reason, but she refused to listen to what I had already so calmly explained to her.

And so I screamed at her.

All the pent-up frustration I had felt whenever she spoke of another man - of Erik - all the jealousy I had kept inside, I let loose in one explosive diatribe.

I would either make her come to her senses or risk driving her out of my life forever.

At least it would bring the torment of not knowing if she loved me as much as I loved her to an end.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: It's true, you know, that darkness wakes and stirs imagination.**_

_**Erik's point of view**_

* * *

My poor heart is aching. It is not the excursion up to the rooftop nor the trek around the opera house that has me exhausted. No, it is the sting of wretched betrayal that has me feeling so ill!

I could not believe what I had heard my precious angelic Christine say to that . . . that . . . insolent boy! How could she think there was a spot in Paris where I would not follow her? How could she have thought I would not know what she did? There is nothing I would not do for that dear girl; she has promised herself to _me_, but she told him she _feared _me! How . . . how could she betray me? She has told him some of my secrets!

Some, but not all. He does not know how to navigate the corridors to find my home. Christine still gets lost sometimes. But that is my own fault when I change a few things to keep meddlesome fools from finding our little abode by the underground lake. I take solace in the fact that there were some things she refused to tell him, no matter how earnestly he asked.

I know she finds him - as other women surely must - attractive. He is, after all, young and strong, with a title and money with which he could easily care for a wife. I could provide for a wife with the fortune I have accumulated over my long lifetime. I do not have his youthful handsome face, but my voice makes up for it. I am as strong, nay, stronger than he! He could easily find another woman to romance, but I have only my Christine. Why, why did he have to vie for my darling songstress? Did he not have a slew of noblewomen from which to find a suitable paramour? Or a ballerina or a chorus girl as his brother likes to dally with?

I might have to arrange for one of those young women to cross his path and catch his eye. With that fop of a boy out of the way, it will be much easier for Christine to recall where her loyalties fall. She is mine, and she will soon remember that. And I will not allow her to forget it again.

But I must not think of that now. I have business to attend to. I must write my next set of instructions for the remainder of the season and collect my salary from the managers. Oh, what dreadful men they are! They have no comprehension of what it actually takes to run an opera house! And they balk at paying me for doing the job that they themselves could never do.

Soon, they all shall see. Soon, they all will learn. I have my torture chamber ready for he who dares venture towards my home. I learned quite well while I travelled the world. Sleight of hand is nothing. Torture is an art form that takes years to perfect. That is something the little sultana taught me. It was under her watchful gaze that I became so adept at causing pain.

And how could I not be good at it? Pain had been inflicted upon me from the very day I was born! My own parents didn't love me. They barely cared for me, and so I learned to fend for myself. Once I grew old enough, I left their home so I would no longer have to bear the looks of revulsion they shot me. A travelling fair took me in and made me part of their freak show. I knew, even then, that I was hideous, but the screams that erupted within my tent when the crowds came were heartbreaking.

The first time Christine removed my mask, she screamed, and long-buried memories came flooding back. That was why I lashed out at her as I did. Had she only resisted the temptation to see my face, I might have shown myself to her when I knew she was ready!

Damn that woman and her curiosity! Damn her fickle emotions! Damn her seductiveness!

Ah, I damn her , but I love her still. She, who could bend me to her will with those clear blue eyes. And she loves me, deep down. I see it in her eyes when I play for her or sing her to sleep. It's in the smile she would bestow upon me when I would take her aboveground for a walk. It's in the warmth of her hands when she takes mine when she becomes excited over a new song I have written for her.

When I spied on her with the boy, she did not gaze at him with that same level of passion. I've seen girls look up at their brothers with more love in their eyes. What is it about him that keeps her loyalty alive? Is it merely that they were friends in their childhood and share memories of her father?

Yes! That must be it! He helps her keep her father alive for her. Oh, how could I not have seen that before? What a fool old Erik is for doubting his Christine!

I shall have to prepare for her return to me once the boy heads off on his expedition to the arctic regions. Ah! She must have been giving him some memories to keep him warm on his journey! What a sweet girl my Christine is to pity him as she has.

I have much apologising to do. Foolish Erik, believing his Christine could ever be unfaithful like that! She has pledged her loyalty to me and to music too often for me to seriously doubt where her affections truly lie! Her room must be put into order again and food must be stocked.

But what was that the boy had said about eloping? Does he really intend to abscond with my wife? Does he not realise that I could never let my Christine leave me?


	4. Chapter 4

_**Christine's point of view**_

Oh, why must Raoul be so utterly obstinate? He refuses to listen to what I say, and that's if he even allows me to speak! When we have been out with other people around, he prefers me to be silent or to say as little as possible. Would that be what my life with him would have been? How could I possibly have entertained the thought that a pretend engagement with him might end amicably? It was only supposed to be a temporary arrangement where I made him feel more . . . masculine . . . like something of a hero; I only meant to build up his confidence for his expedition to the dark north! That was why I led him up to the roof of the opera house that night! Only to allow him to feel as though he were protecting me from some dreadful evil.

How could I have thought that Erik would not have known every move I made?

Why must things be so complicated? Why did I _let_ them get so complicated?

I care for Raoul, it is true. We share some happy memories from that summer by the sea, when we played and delighted in frightening stories of far away lands and goblins. My father liked him, as well. But Raoul is not the man I envisioned marrying. So much time passed between the last time I saw him that pleasant summer and the night I performed the lead in Faust that I did not recognise him at first. I am not sure how he was able to recognise me that night!

It was not until a few nights later that I realised who he was. He showed himself to be kind and charming once we became reacquainted, and he is very handsome, of course, but he understands nothing of my reality here and now. He has led a life of privilege, of having things handed to him. I have had to work for much of what I have. My life is on the stage, whether as a star or in the background. I could not bear a life that was not filled with music.

Erik understands my feelings all too well. He knows my passion for singing and for music because he feels it, too. That same drive to put words to paper and that desire to have all the world hear them courses through his veins, as well. He knows what it is to slave over a piece for days, not stopping to rest or to eat until every aspect is perfect.

I have written a letter explaining the situation to Erik in the hopes that he will help me escape from that silly vicomte. Even if it is the last time Erik wishes to see me, if he casts me from his life after this, at least he will know that I have loved him these past months that he has been in my life. Oh, Erik, if only I can make you see how much you mean to me! I simply must find a way to be with Erik, whatever situation he wishes for us to be in.

He said, once, that he wished to have a wife, just an ordinary, normal wife that he could take out on Sundays. We lived that sort of life those two weeks I was in his home. We went out for carriage rides and out to cafés and sat in Box 5 to watch operas being staged. There were a few times we even went up to watch rehearsals. Taking care of a bit of business, he said.

Well, then, his business shall be my business, if he will have me. I shall become exactly the kind of wife he desires, the kind of woman he deserves. I owe him nothing less than my everything.

* * *

_**Erik's point of view**_

Oh, dear little Christine. Dear, sweet, seductive, conniving Christine! How can you not realise what you do to your poor Erik? I was simply a dog ready to lie at your feet and die for you if you would only love me. I asked you for nothing more than to wear my ring and remain faithful to your master, to your angel of music, but you betrayed me in the arms of another.

That is simply not acceptable, dear girl.

No, my darling angel, you will have to learn a lesson in what it means to be a proper and dutiful wife. I will be quite the capable and doting husband if you will only allow me the pleasure of a proper marriage. There are things you have never even heard of, my innocent seraph. Things that I learned in my travels throughout my rather long life.

Your letter moves me even though you have not yet sent it. I wonder if you even mean it to find its way into my hands? There really is no need for you to go to all that trouble now, though, is there? Oh, yes, I kept my eye on you in your dressing room! From behind the mirror, and from other spots unknown to you or anyone else, I spied on each word your pretty little hand scrolled onto the stationery I had given you. But do you mean those words? Do you comprehend the weight of your promises now? Will you really give yourself to me if I render my assistance? Are you truly ready for the life I offered you?

Or is this merely some new ploy you have concocted to lure me into a trap of that boy's making?

How can I ever be sure of your love when you have broken my heart more than once? You have broken your promises to me, silly girl, on several occasions! You ripped my mask from my face, the one thing I warned you not to do while you were in my home. You told my secrets to another. You entered into a romantic entanglement when you were supposed to abandon such thoughts of other men! You lost the ring I gave you. In the gutter!

And yet, you claim you will be a good and proper wife to your Erik once the vicomte is out of the way? Can I be sure you will not, one day, again seek out his help in escaping me when you tire of your poor, unhappy Erik? Or might you seek comfort with another rich and handsome man by then?

I do not know how much more of this torment I shall be able to endure before I am spent.

* * *

_**Raoul's point of view**_

That lying, deceitful, ungrateful, manipulative woman! Who does she dare to think herself? She was the toast of Paris for a night, perhaps two; that does not make her my equal. Being talked about because she had disappeared is not exactly the type of notoriety that makes for respectable fame, especially considering where she actually was during that tine!

I would have given her a new name, a new life far from all this scandal of the theatre and musicians and performers. She could have been happy as my wife. Yet she would prefer a life here, with a madman watching her every move, obsessing over her, never leaving her able to marry or have a family, nor to enjoy the privilege my money could offer her.

What sort of bizarre hold does he have over her if a man such as he could sway her away from a man like me?

I will never understand women.


	5. Chapter 5

_**My eternal gratitude to M. Gaston Leroux for sharing the fascinating and complex story of Erik, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra**__**, with us, and giving me the strange, twisted inspiration for stories such as this.**_

_**And many thanks to MadameFaust, Gravity01, and PhantomFan01 for the reviews! I'm quite pleased you're enjoying my little foray into 'madness'.  
**_

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_**Erik's point of view**_

Oh, Christine, I wonder how clearly you remember the first time I brought you down to my home. Do you remember that journey down the depths of the opera house? My hands trembled to clasp yours as I guided you down the dark corridors and I feared my old heart would burst forth from my chest! You were so trusting then, so innocent and naive. I robbed you of that. I cruelly twisted your childhood beliefs to sate my own hideous desires.

But even a spider deserves a mate, does he not?

You, my dear, could have had the world at your feet had you only kept to your promises to me!

I might forgive you your transgressions, though, if you are thoroughly contrite, of course. Your letter, so meticulously written, is a thing of beauty. How I adored watching your hands of porcelain draw out my name on paper so many times. It was almost as wonderful as hearing you whisper it in my ear.

You betrayed me, and now you want my help. I gave you the gift of my music, and you gave me your promise to be mine, to remain faithful to your teacher, then you turned to that insolent young fop of a vicomte and so easily gave your word to him.

Ah, but you were a good girl, resisting his advances, his attempts to kiss you. He is a man, after all, and merely wanted what any normal man would want. You are so beautiful that no man in his right mind would not at least try to steal a kiss from your angelic lips so as to purge himself of his vile sins.

Oh, my dearest little Christine, have you any idea how you torment me when you are not by my wretched side? I am only myself when you are near me, you see.

That first night you stayed in the house on the lake, after you'd ripped the mask from my corpse-like face, I screamed at you. I frightened you with my rage, I know. My strength so startled you when I flung you across the room, yes? Oh, but that was so long ago, before you learned that I am just a man, merely poor, unhappy Erik.

That night, oh, that glorious night, you vowed to be mine, to give yourself to me. How I would have loved to have had the opportunity, the sublime pleasure of your warm skin against my own hideous flesh in a sweet embrace, but it was not to be. You begged me for a proper wedding, in a church, with a priest. How lovely you will look when you become my bride! You shall wear a luxurious gown of silk and satin and pearls and lace to match your own radiance!

I almost hate myself for what I shall do to you on our wedding night. But you shall be a good wife to your Erik, will you not? You shall do all that is asked of you with no hesitation, just as I shall do all you ask of me. I have always done anything you asked. You wanted to play the lead in Faust, and so I arranged for La Carlotta to be 'ill'. You wanted to go to the ball, and so we went. You wanted to see where I live, and so I brought you with me.

Yes, I shall help you get away from the boy, just as you wish, for he has no right to take what is already mine.

* * *

_**Christine's point of view**_

Oh, how I wish I could be with Erik now! I could be resting in his arms at this very moment had I not been so stupid as to talk to Raoul that evening on the rooftop. No, this sticky situation I am in is my own fault. I must extricate myself from it so I can prove to Erik that I am worthy of his love.

But I am not worthy. I have not been true to my word. Oh, but I will be, even if he casts me aside, I will forevermore remain faithful to him.

Damn, Raoul is at the door again. If I don't let him in now, he will only return within a few minutes, even more insistent. And that will only lead to his anger. I don't like Raoul when he's angry.

I don't like when Erik is angry, either, but he can restrain himself from causing me any real harm.

"Raoul, please," I sighed as I opened the door. "I must prepare for tonight's production. I don't have much time."

"Yes, that is exactly why I am here. I wish to be sure that you _are _prepared. I shall take your bags down to my carriage so we might simply walk out the door as soon as your performance is over."

_Stubborn fool. _"You know very well that I shall not be able to leave as quickly as that. There is the gathering of -"

He grabbed my shoulders and shook me violently. "I DO NOT CARE WHAT YOUR EXCUSES ARE! YOU ARE TO MEET ME BACKSTAGE AS SOON AS THE OPERA IS OVER!"

I could only stare at him in confused shock as he screamed into my face. This was not the Raoul I had spent so many happy afternoons playing with in our youth. Nor was this the sweet man who had been so gentle and romantic these last few months. This man was utterly unrecognisable to me. I had no idea what he might be capable of in this state. "What has gotten into you, Raoul?" I hissed at him. "Your brother objects to me, and he has made it quite plain that he will disown you if you insist on marrying me. I will not be the cause of familial strife; you will only resent me later for losing your brother and your money and your titles. _And_ you are leaving for an expedition to the North soon. Or have you forgotten _that_, as well?"

His face changed. It seemed I had struck a nerve. For all his planning, had he really managed to overlook those two crucial details? Did he truly believe himself ready to be a husband when he couldn't see beyond the end of the week?

My heart sank at what he said next. "You see, little Lotte, what a good wife you will be to me? You remind me of the details that have escaped me. Yes, you and I shall go to Sweden, to the land of your birth, and make a home there, then I shall go north. When I return, we shall begin our life together, just like we've always dreamed!" His eyes were hazy, as though I were an insignificant part of that dream.

I stared down at my hands, lying limp in my lap. Two men vied for my heart, and both were insane. Raoul's insanity made him blind to plain reality. Erik's insanity was part of his genius. My finger felt so dreadfully empty without Erik's ring upon it. Raoul's ring was in its little box on the vanity table. Raoul believes I do not wear his ring because it would not do to wear a ring while onstage; it might catch the light and distract someone.

How simple life must be when one sees only what one wants to see.

"Raoul?" I had to try again. There had to be a way to get out of this. "I will require time after my performance to change out of my costume and into some appropriate travelling clothes."

"Oh, yes, of course," he murmured. "I shall wait for you backstage, then. Here, I'll take your bags so you won't have to worry about them when you come downstairs."

"No, Raoul . . . I still have to make sure I have everything I need. Really, I can manage my own bags. That is sweet of you to offer, though." I smiled at him politely, hoping he would let the matter be and leave my dressing room. This really was not at all appropriate and he knew it.

"Very well. Don't be long changing after the opera. I am not a very patient man. I always get what I want, and I don't like to be kept waiting for it."

I merely nodded, afraid to speak. Once he had closed the door behind him, I waited, then checked to make sure he had actually left. I summoned up my courage and went to the mirror. "Oh, Erik," I whispered to the glass. "I know I do not deserve it, but I need your help. Don't let that silly boy take me away from you!"

The glass moved suddenly. There, in all his dark splendour, was my Erik, the Opera Ghost. With a relieved whimper, I collapsed into his arms and was engulfed by darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: I really appreciate the feedback! Switching to third person omniscient for now.**_

When she came to, Christine was in the bedroom Erik had given her in his home beneath the Opera Garnier.

"You fainted, my dear," he murmured from the shadows. He was thoroughly relieved that she was awake, but he knew he must remain aloof. There was far too much that they had to discuss. He would not allow her to see how much he still cared. Despite all the lies, all the secrets, all the conniving on both their parts, he still loved her.

He just couldn't admit that to her yet.

She glanced around, slightly confused. It was dark, but she recognised the voice of her Angel of Music. The last thing she could remember clearly was being onstage, singing as Marguerite in Faust, just as her angel had wanted, the part he had prepared her for. She had completed the final aria, and she was in ecstasy, lost in the song, then . . . then . . .

Then there was nothing until this moment. He said she had fainted. But where was she? There was only one candle lit on the table beside her, so she couldn't see her surroundings. It didn't feel like the fainting sofa in her dressing room; this was most certainly a bed. Adding to her confusion was that she had no way to gauge how much time had passed since she'd performed. Hours? Days, perhaps? And how had she come to be wherever she was?

There were far too many questions that she had to ask him while she could. She attempted to sit up in the bed, but found she felt too weak. She let her head fall back onto the pillow and lifted a hand to her lips to stave off the wave of nausea that threatened.

He was at her side in a flash with a glass of water. "Sip slowly, Christine," he chided as he propped her up. His arms were so strong behind her shoulders, yet so gentle when he worried over her.

With him blocking the meagre light from the solitary candle on her nightstand, she thought he looked every bit like the Ghost that everyone else thought him to be.

And he would do anything for her. Somehow, she knew that much about him. Her angel had become a man for her. That was she wanted, wasn't it? To be with him in a way other than merely through their combined song?

But there was something more to him. He was her angel, and he was a man, and . . . It bothered her greatly that she could not easily recall what else she knew about him! She realised that there had to be more, but she knew that could not be when all she knew was that he was her Angel of Music, the one her father had promised her, the one who had brought life back into her voice.

She hazarded a glance up at him, at the face obscured by the black mask that made him look menacing. Those golden eyes were fixed on her in a way that made her blush. She felt rather than heard him chuckle. Embarrassed, she turned away from him.

"Oh, Christine," he sighed. He placed another pillow behind her to prop her up before straightening himself up again. What must she be thinking of him if she had fainted straight into his arms as soon as she had seen him? Was she happy to see him? Or was it merely that she saw him as her escape from Raoul?

Christine regarded him thoughtfully. She felt so foolish for having succumbed to her emotions while singing. When first she had done so, it had been onstage, and that silly boy, her childhood playmate, had rushed to her dressing room uninvited. Now, she was in Erik's home, and his music had swept her away, and she could not have resisted it, even if she had wanted to.

Yes, that was it! She remembered now. She had fainted after performing, and the doctor had tended to her in her dressing room, and that ridiculous boy from her youth had been there, as though it were his right. Such insolence. Then, her angel had brought her to his home, and they sang together. He played for her such exquisite music that had set her soul aflame!

And she couldn't handle it.

"I'm sorry," she offered.

He turned on her immediately, his anger palpable. "Sorry? You're sorry? What have you to apologise for? For having betrayed me with that boy? For being false to me?"

She furrowed her brow. Had her angel gone mad? "What - what are you talking about? Who? How have I been false to you?"

"Ah, quite the little actress, aren't you? I have taught you too well, it seems! _I saw you on the rooftop with your precious vicomte,"_ he hissed.

"Vi- ? What? I have never been up to the rooftop, much less with that silly boy who forced his way into my dressing room last night. Ugh, I have no desire to see _him_ again."

Erik was silent for several long moments. Did she truly believe she had only just performed in Faust? Had she hit her head when she collapsed into his arms or was this some ploy to manipulate him? He lit another candle then ventured closer to her. Even when she lied to him, her eyes would reveal the truth to him.

He peered into those blue depths but could find no guile. _'Amnesia? Could it be? I daresay I have a second chance with her. But I must tread carefully. If she does not remember having seen my face, we might be able to start over.'_


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: Heh, I wrote chapter six, took care of some housework, and then wrote chapter seven. Yes, two chapters in one night. I had a sudden bit of odd inspiration (hehe, dark, fanged plot bunnies!). Enjoy.**_

'_If she does not remember having seen my face, we might be able to start over.'_It was a thought that gave Erik such comfort that he could almost put it out of his mind that she had been ready to betray him by eloping with the vicomte.

_Almost._

An hour later, Christine was sitting in her angel's - in _Erik's _kitchen, watching as he moved about. She sipped the milky sweet tea he had prepared for her. She thought about what he'd admitted to her since she'd woken. He was no angel, that much did not come as a shock. He was a man, and his name was Erik, but that was a name he came about by accident.

"How does one acquire a name by accident?" she had innocently asked.

The sorrow in his eyes, even behind the mask, made her instantly regret the question.

He had then told her that she had only been unconscious for about an hour; the hectic day had taken its toll on her. That much was not a lie, he'd told himself.

But something didn't feel quite right to her. She could sense that there was something he was keeping from her, even as they had made their way down the hall to the kitchen. She sighed forlornly.

"Is something the matter, Christine?" Erik asked, concerned. It was troubling to him that he could not fathom how she could so easily have forgotten the past few months. Perhaps when Raoul, in his anger, had shaken her . . . It would be remarkably easy to cast all the blame on him. He turned from his task to scrutinise her face again.

"I . . . It is only that . . ." She stared at her hands, trying to find the words to express how she felt. "I can scarcely recall what happened last night. It all seems so . . . so muddled. Had you not mentioned him, I doubt I would have remembered Raoul having been there, in my room." She frowned at the thought of the vicomte. She didn't like people intruding into her affairs when she hadn't asked them to, especially when it was desperately unnecessary.

Erik inhaled sharply. If he didn't mention any more about the boy, she might forget that she had ever been engaged to him. And he knew that it was not wise to try to force someone in her condition to remember. Could it be that she simply _chose_ not to remember her fiancé?

That might seem to be so, given the words she had poured out into her letter to him. She wished 'to be free of Raoul'; yes, those had been the very words she had used in her letter.

But had she not uttered similar words, up on the rooftop, to Raoul about Erik?

No, he would not think about any of that now. He would take things slowly with her. If she really did have amnesia, he would be able to make her fall in love with him, and he'd do it without any of the tricks he'd used the first time. She could learn to see the man. Perhaps she didn't even need to see his face, if she truly loved him. He would not make mention of his mask, for that was what had piqued her curiosity before, had it not?

* * *

Christine reclined in the armchair by the hearth. Her head was spinning with wonder and awe. All that had happened in the short amount of time since she'd opened her eyes had changed so much! Her angel was not a heavenly messenger, but merely Erik, a man with a heavenly voice.

And yet, she felt as though she had already known that. That bit of information seemed, to her, to be part of some bigger puzzle. But there were some things she just couldn't grasp. Memories were hiding behind the fog in her mind, and she couldn't part the veil to see everything clearly.

Part of her felt as though she were about to be late for an appointment, as though she were supposed to be onstage soon. Erik had told her that she should rest, that she had had a long day. That was his all too simple explanation for why she felt the way she did. But there had to be more to it than fatigue.

She clutched her head in her hands and prayed that clarity would come soon.

* * *

Raoul was frantic. No one had seen any sign of Christine since he had left her dressing room. Her costume mistress had gone to assist her with her final preparations only to find the room empty. Christine was nowhere to be found in the Opera Garnier, and no one had seen her leave, either. _'Where could she be?' _he wondered again.

Surely, that monster had abducted her again. He feared the worst if that were the case. What might that Phantom do to her if he knew that sweet Christine had been about to run off with him?

He racked his brain, trying to remember what Christine had said to him about the entrance to Erik's home, the one that could be found from the Rue Scribe. He had been pacing up and down the same stretch for the past fifteen minutes, but he couldn't spot what he supposed to find. She had told him how to discern the opening, but her description had been coloured by her worry that she'd heard her name in the wind.

Perhaps she had purposely misled him? Perhaps this was part of her plan, to toy with a nobleman, gain his affection to secure his patronage, then return to her tutor. Was there more that she had not told him?

She had laughed when he'd first mentioned that summer by the sea, when he'd rescued her scarf. It had wounded his pride, but he was persistent in his pursuit of her. Eventually, she had admitted that she did, indeed, remember those days they had spent in play. That was why she had agreed to the engagement, at least until he was due to leave on his expedition to the Arctic regions.

And that was when he realised why she was angry with him, why she was going back on her word to him. She was upset that he would be leaving her, so she wanted to leave him and make him understand! Oh, he felt an utter fool for having not realised how she would feel abandoned. He found he couldn't blame her for that, of course, as her mother, then her father and her guardians had left her. It hadn't been their fault; they hadn't chosen to die.

'_Poor Christine,' _he mused_. 'How could I have been so blind? She doesn't like to feel as though she's been forgotten and left behind. I shall have to cancel my plans. That will reassure her as to my love for her.'_

He was perfectly resolved to change his life for her when a sudden blow to the back of the head knocked him unconscious.

* * *

Erik had sent Christine to his library so she could rest after the light supper he'd made for her. Poor dear, she was so confused, he knew. She was in no condition to perform tonight. He doubted she'd be up to going on for a few days, at the soonest. He had told her that he would send word to the managers that she was ill and needed a few days to rest, and so he did.

They were upset, as was to be expected. The understudy had scarcely an hour to prepare, and she wasn't the best singer that they had, but she knew the role well enough. La Carlotta certainly could not be persuaded to perform on such short notice, not with the way she had been humiliated before, even if the Opera Ghost had permitted that to be an option.

But Christine's health was more important than any opera could ever be. She needed a few days to rest with absolutely no stress put upon her.


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N: I know, the last couple of chapters were confusing, but they were meant to be so. The next couple of chapters should begin to clear things up. I'm giving Erik the surname of Chaput here as it is the name I gave Erik in the POTO-inspired story I'm planning to publish. Chaput means cloak/cape.  
**_

_**Disclaimer: I am not a doctor/medical professional. Any information contained herein is solely presented for the purposes of this story and should not be taken as actual medical advice.**_

* * *

"Drink this, Christine. It will help your stomach," Erik advised softly.

She gratefully accepted the steaming tea cup he handed her and sipped it slowly. _'Ginger,'_ she thought pleasantly. "Erik? I . . . I don't remember much, but . . ." She swallowed another mouthful of hot tea before continuing. "You have been quite good to me all this time. Taking care of me and teaching me and . . . I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for being my angel when I needed one." She cast her eyes up to his, hoping he understood her.

Erik merely sighed and gazed down at her. "I - You are welcome, Christine." He turned his attention to the fireplace. He couldn't look at her when there was such trust in her eyes. "Christine? There is much you ha-" He shook his head. He couldn't bring himself to tell her. She didn't remember, or at least claimed not to remember having been on the rooftop with Raoul. And she had called the vicomte a "silly boy", which he admitted he found funny.

But he found he still could not be sure. He wanted to believe her, really. But those eyes could deceive him if he let them.

"Erik?" She startled him out of his dark thoughts.

"Yes, Christine?" he asked without turning towards her. He preferred to stare into the dancing flames than into those perfect blue eyes.

"How long has it actually been since I first performed in Faust?"

His shoulders sagged, but she didn't notice. "You mean, as the lead. It," he took a deep breath. "It is longer than you think it has been."

"It wasn't . . . It wasn't just last night, then. When I first woke, I thought you had brought me after I fainted onstage. But then I remembered having been in my dressing room with the doctor . . . and then here, with you . . . yet I know . . ." She faltered, wondering if she should risk asking him.

"You know what, Christine?"

"I know you mentioned something about . . . I'm not even sure," she admitted. "I feel as though . . . as though I am in a fog and I can't see anything clearly except for you and even that is not clear. And I can barely recall what you said to me when I awoke." She heaved the words out in a rush, fearful that she might never have a chance to be able to say them again.

Erik turned slowly to face her. "You do not see me clearly. There are things you seem not to remember. Or perhaps you choose not to remember them." He kept his voice even and steady, but inside, all he felt was turmoil.

She found she had no response to what he said. Whatever it was that she had forgotten, perhaps she was better off not knowing. She gazed down into her tea cup, nearly empty. She immediately shut her eyes against a wave of dizziness.

He grabbed the cup from her shaking hand and set it on the table beside her. "Breathe, Christine, just keep breathing slowly." He didn't dare move her just yet, but he knew she needed a doctor.

"What is wrong with me, Erik?" she sobbed. She had never been more afraid in her life.

* * *

Raoul came to with a splitting headache. Movement made him sick, so he kept as still as possible. A sudden light blinded him. _'Where am I? What the devil happened?'_

"Relax. You are safe."

The voice was unfamiliar to him. He tried to place it, but his head was spinning too much. He wasn't even sure if he was lying down or sitting up. He emitted a frustrated groan. _'How am I to take Christine away from the madness? She will be worried if I am not there to meet her.'_

He heard a soft chuckling. "You needn't worry about her. Word has been sent that you are . . . indisposed," the gravelly voice informed him. "Yes, you spoke aloud, Monsieur le Vicomte," he answered Raoul's confused look.

"Damn you! Why have you done this?" He didn't hear a response as he slipped back into the realm of unconsciousness.

* * *

Erik paced in the waiting room of the doctor's office. Bringing Christine here, under cover of darkness, had been necessary. He feared for her health and was dreadfully worried that there was something seriously wrong with her.

"Monsieur Chaput? I have concluded my examination," the doctor informed him. "Come back into my office."

Erik followed him wordlessly down the hallway. "What is your diagnosis?"

"She has amnesia, as you know. She's rather confused about all this. Has she been under any undue stress lately?"

Erik glared at him from behind the mask. Unlike some more superstitious people, Doctor Henning did not fear him, which is precisely why Erik liked him. "There has been increased pressure on her from a few people, I fear."

Dr. Henning nodded. "Perhaps you could take her for a relaxing trip out to the country. Wide, open spaces and fresh air might do her a world of good. No performing, no demands from the managers, just plenty of rest."

"It is the middle of the season. If she left now . . . No, her health is more important than her career. How long would you suggest she rest?"

"Oh, a few weeks, at least. On the other hand, she might spontaneously recover as quickly as she fell ill. Still, give her time. A relapse of this would not be good for her."

Erik slowly released the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "And the dizziness?"

"Her corset was too tight; that's all. Let her go without one while you're out in the country. And make sure she doesn't fall asleep with it on again. Apply cold compresses to her head if she gets a headache and keep an eye on her. Make sure she eats well. None of this nibbling tiny amounts as other women do. Just . . . keep doing as you have done so far. You take quite good care of your wife, Monsieur Chaput." Doctor Henning smiled. Some husbands complained when their wives fell ill, but this man rushed her to him with no regard for anything else.

It was as though she were his life.

Christine entered then, still adjusting her skirts. She was not accustomed to going without a corset, and she felt self-conscious without it under her dress. The doctor, however, had insisted that she go a few days without it. After that, she would have to leave it looser than she had been wearing it.

"Are you feeling better, my dear?" Erik took her hand and kissed it.

"Yes, thank you." She blushed at the contact.

After they returned to the house on the lake, Christine admitted that she remembered something.

"Our wedding was beautiful, Erik."


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N: Oops, silly me! I'd thought I'd already posted this. Oh, well, I made this longer to make up for the delay. I suppose I have that much (these insomniatic bursts of creativity) in common with Erik, I suppose. Haha, "insomniatic", there I go making up words!**_

"Our wedding was beautiful, Erik," Christine proclaimed, her eyes trained upon his.

Erik stared at her in disbelief. "You . . . remember?" He held his hands stiffly at his sides in an attempt to subdue his frazzled nerves. He didn't dare move for fear that this moment would prove to be nothing more than a glorious dream. First, she was ill, and now she gazed upon him with something that he dared not believe was anything resembling what he barely hoped she might someday feel for him.

"Only vaguely," she interrupted his jumbled thoughts. "It was only us, the priest, and two nuns, and you held me close to you. I was so nervous; I think I was a bit afraid of you, my angel, of your hold over me." She paused for the briefest moment to take a breath. "But I _am_ your wife, yes?"

He nodded, unwilling to trust his voice. The ceremony had been so rushed, but it had made her smile. He had hypnotised her with his voice, of course, but that didn't make the marriage any less legal.

And she remembered it.

'_How strange she should remember it now when she seemed not to remember it enough to resist entering into that pretend engagement with the vicomte." _He wondered again what was going through that pretty little head of hers.

"Erik?" Her brow furrowed as she sought the right words. "We . . . I wond-" She sighed in confusion. Her lips kept moving, but no sound escaped them. Finally, she settled on asking, "Just how married are we, Erik?"

He stared at her quizzically for several long moments before he understood her meaning. "We had the ceremony, yes. And you lived with me, here, for another week. And we went for walks in the evenings. You were such a good wife to your Erik while you were in his - _our_ home."

"What else?" she demanded, her expression blank.

"What do you mean?" _'I want you to say it. Put into words what weighs so heavily on your mind.'_

She blushed furiously. Her eyes examined the wall behind him, the floor, the dimly lit ceiling, everything but him. "Did . . . did you . . . after the wedding . . . did you . . .? Oh, Erik, surely you know what I am asking! Please, please, do not make me say such things!"

He chuckled mirthlessly at her shy embarrassment. "Your virtue is still intact, my dear. I am a monster, but I was able to control my baser instincts. You were willing to do what I asked of you, and I could not bring myself to expect more. How could one so pure as you ever allow a corpse such as I am to . . . No, my dear, good, innocent wife, I have not tainted you. You need not worry about that." He turned from her then. His unspoken _'for now'_ hung heavily in the damp air between them.

Christine exhaled wearily. _'I have offended him. I didn't mean to hurt him; I just can't remember anything clearly. Doctor Henning said my memory might return just as easily as it left, that I shouldn't try to rush things, but I can't take not knowing what happened between us. He is my husband. Is it not-'_ She cut off her own thoughts and forced herself to look at him, to really see him.

His back was slender but there was obvious strength in those shoulders. He stood rigidly straight. His legs were long, as were his fingers, she recalled. He held his head high, even when not facing her, as though he would maintain that air of pride no matter what.

'_And he is mine,'_ she thought with a sense of possessiveness. "My husband," she couldn't help but whisper with a slight upturn of her lips.

Erik refused to turn. His breathing was shallow and rapid and he couldn't quite trust himself not to throw himself upon her and beg her to love him, to allow his caress upon her ivory skin. No, he could not do that again. He wouldn't be able to tolerate the rejection this time.

He felt her hand on his elbow, pulling him towards her. "Is it not right that a wife should be allowed to hold her husband?"

His breath caught in his throat, and he feared his heart would leap out of his chest at her proximity. "Let us go inside first, Christine. You should sit and rest. It has been a . . . tumultuous evening."

Silently, she took the hand he offered her and let him guide her to the library. She watched as he added logs to the fire, amazed that such an intelligent, talented, extraordinary man had chosen her. She felt humbled and flattered at the same time. _'What have I done to warrant his love for me?'_

At last, he rose from his task and sat beside her on the settee. Slowly, tentatively, she inched her right hand towards him until she had his hand in hers again. She removed the glove he wore so she could examine his fingers. They were incredibly long and thin. "Are your hands always this cold, Erik?"

He cleared his throat nervously. "Yes, they are." This was far too similar to another evening they'd spent by the fire. He could only hope this night would end more pleasantly.

She lifted his hand to cheek, nuzzling his palm, then emitted the most delicate little moan he'd ever heard from her. Not that he'd heard her moan all that often, but it was such a small sound, and knowing that it was because of him, because of his touch, gave him pause.

Did she secretly crave his touch? Did some part, hidden from her conscious mind, want him this close to her? Or was she still simply toying with him?

Was this part of the boy's plot to capture him? He had, as Erik had heard up on the rooftop, stated a desire to kill the Opera Ghost and rid the world of his malevolent presence. Freeing Christine from his mesmerising hold had been almost an afterthought to him.

But Christine was always at the forefront of Erik's mind. When he composed an aria, he imagined Christine's voice singing it. When he saw a lovely evening gown in a store window, he wondered if Christine might like it. On the rare occasion that he managed to eat something, he wished Christine were there to savour it with him.

And then she had been here, talking to him, keeping him company, dispelling the solitude to which he'd become accustomed. She was the moon, shining down upon the dreariness of his tortured existence. He'd intended to keep her with him forever, but, when she had asked so sweetly to be permitted to return to the world above, he found he could have refused her nothing.

And so he let her go.

He had immersed himself in his work while she was gone. But everything made him think of her. Candle wax made him long for the silky softness of her hands, her petal soft cheek. Pounding out a concerto only made him wistful.

It wasn't until Christine's lips met his in a chaste kiss that he realised that he was crying.

'_She returned to me. The angel returned to her demon,'_ was all he could think.

* * *

Christine had gone to bed in the Louis-Philippe room while Erik began making plans for the trip. She had smiled so prettily at him when he'd told her of the doctor's suggestion that they go out to the countryside for a while.

"Yes, I would like that. I've not been outside of Paris in so long, and the gardens are lovely, but to get away from everything would be nice," she had remarked. "Perhaps some place with lots of trees? I do so miss the forests of home." Her eyes misted so slightly that someone less observant would have missed it.

He'd simply have to find a place that looked like the forests of Sweden, even if he had to have the trees imported. Cost mattered little to him.

And so here he was, arranging just that with one of his business associates. It was one of the less savoury sections of the city, but fewer questions were asked here. He could go about as he pleased with less worry then in the more dignified areas where nobles were always on the lookout for gossip and scandal to entertain them.

"The cost is of no import. You know I have the funds for it. I only want a few trees to give her some place to sit and read," he embellished. "She spent her youth in Sweden and is a bit homesick."

"Ah, of course. It will take a bit of convincing, considering the trees are being brought for the holidays, but I can have them brought to the estate within two weeks. I have a shipment arriving soon, and there will be several plants from Scandinavia. Would your lady also enjoy some flowers? I can easily get those if she'd like."

"Very well. Make sure some are pink, and some purple in the mix, maybe something blue."

"I believe I have some juniper that could be taken there immediately."

Erik nodded his assent. "And the brougham?"

"It will be furnished with all you will require for the journey. You know my drivers are trustworthy. And I shall see to it that the pantries are fully stocked, as well."

"Thank you."

"Will you require any servants for your stay? You will be . . . rather secluded."

Erik pondered this for a moment. "Yes . . . perhaps a cook. Someone . . . close to Christine's age, a young woman she can talk to." _'I wouldn't want my darling girl to feel lonely.'_

"As you wish, sir."

He left some of the more trivial details to his nameless associate's discretion and hastened back to his domain beneath the opera house.

* * *

Raoul awoke once more, the pain in his head considerably less than it had been before, but his stomach was churning. He felt as though he were being rocked. He lifted a hand to his forehead and groaned.

"You'll be fine. Just lie still for a bit." The voice was softer and kinder than the one he'd heard before. "If you think you can keep it down, I can fetch you some soup."

He tried opening his eyes, but it made him dizzy. "Thank you, no. Where am I?"

The other man chuckled. "Aye, ya got hit on the head pretty hard, didn't ya? You'll get your sea legs soon enough, lad."

'_Sea legs? Hit? Damn Philippe,'_ he thought as he groaned again out of frustration. _'What will Christine think when I don't meet her? Will she despair that I have abandoned her? Or will she realise that something happened?'_ He only prayed that she could be patient enough to wait for his return, for he would do anything to be by her side again.

* * *

"Did you get everything taken care of, my love?" Christine asked sleepily.

He smoothed her hair back from face and nodded. "I certainly hope you will like it. There is a garden out there where you can sit and read, if you like. We can go for walks in the evening, as well. There's a pond where ducks come to swim in the summer. And-"

"Is it big enough to skate on?" she asked through a lazy yawn. "That might be fun." She snuggled into the pillow and reached for Erik's hand.

"Don't sleep, Christine."

"Oh, but I'm so tired . . ."

"No, Christine, you must remain awake. Just a little while longer. I need to know what you want to bring with us. Which dresses you wish me to pack or if you'd prefer to have some new ones made with support built into them. You mustn't wear your corset while we're out there, you know."

She hummed her agreement. "New dresses would be nice," she murmured as she pulled her husband down beside her.

He pulled her close, wondering what it would be like to be just an ordinary couple. But, in the back of his mind, he feared the day she remembered everything he had done to gain her favour.


	10. Chapter 10

Christine took Erik's hand and stepped down from the brougham. It had been an uneventful but tiring journey out of Paris, and they had stopped only once to give the horses a rest. She stretched lazily, then drank in the sight of the manor and the surrounding grounds.

The driver hurried to take their luggage inside and showed the cook, Nanette, to the kitchen. The young woman was scarcely older than Christine and terribly excited to be in the employ of someone as rich as Monsieur Chaput, even if she wondered a bit at what the man who'd contacted her had called his master's mysterious ways. She'd only been in Paris for a couple of weeks, so she was in no position to ask questions when she was being paid so well. She was experienced enough at both cooking and sewing to suit this job since she'd worked for a kind family in Rouen where she had learned far more. The kitchen was better than she might have expected of a country estate and extremely well-appointed. It seemed to have modern touches nestled amongst what was clearly a very old, very well-preserved home.

"Oh, Erik, this is magnificent!" Christine enthused as they strolled along the garden wall in the late afternoon sun. "It reminds me of home, and the small farms Papa and I used to stay at after we'd perform at their weddings."

"I am pleased to know you like it, my dear. I have never had occasion to enjoy the surroundings."

She turned, confused. She couldn't understand how he had the pleasure of being so near such beauty, yet not partake of it. "No?"

He grinned behind the mask. He found her curiosity endearing at times. "I only meant that, when I have stayed here in the past, it was to work. I have never had the opportunity to do much more than that."

"Ah," she nodded, "but you will join me for walks in the evenings, oui, mon amour?"

"As you wish. A walk after supper every evening should do you good, I think. Come, I will show you the house. Many of the rooms are spacious, but I fear you might find the windows are rather small downstairs."

She tried to hide her disappointment at the lack of sunlight that would come into the rooms, but it quickly gave way to wonder as she saw just how beautiful the interior really was. "Remarkable," she breathed as she lingered in front of a painting in the corridor. "Who painted this?"

Erik cleared his throat. "I did, when I first purchased the estate. I sought to capture it just as it was when I first saw it. It was . . . in a state of disrepair at the time, as you can see."

She nodded, struck by the way he'd captured the darkness of the night and the way the foliage seemed to be consuming the building. It made her think of the darkness she felt within herself. A small sigh slipped from her lips.

"Does something trouble you, my love?" Erik asked, immediately concerned. It would not do for her to find some fault, any fault at all, with her surroundings.

She turned towards him. "No, no," she replied slowly. "It is only that . . . I wonder about my memory loss, why it came on so suddenly. I thought, perhaps, that it might have been something dreadful that I preferred to forget." She managed a smile for him. "Come, my sweet, show me the rest of your home."

"_Our_ home, Christine," he reminded. "Whatever is mine is also yours."

She blushed, then held her hand out to him. He led her up the stairs and to the master suite. She gasped when she saw the luxurious furnishings. She was having trouble with the thought that this was partly hers and not just Erik's.

"Oh, Erik, this is all . . . incredible! Everything is so beautiful!" She ran her fingers along the intricate carvings on the bedposts. Erik pulled her to lie beside him on the bed. That was when she noticed that the canopy above them held a mural.

"The curtains of the bed are woven tapestries," he explained. "They are things I brought with me when I left Constantinople."

"You lived in Constantinople?"

"Yes, briefly. I designed a few buildings for the royal family many years ago." He grew eerily quiet.

Christine wondered at his sudden retreat into his own mind but didn't dare break the silence. Something told her she was better off not asking him too many questions about his past. She preferred to live in the present. She closed her eyes to savour the feel of the sumptuous fabric they were lying upon and wondered where else her Erik had lived. She was just drifting off to sleep when he jostled her.

"It is time to rise, my love. Breakfast is ready."

She blinked several times in confusion. "Breakfast? But we only just got here. How-" She glanced towards the window. It was true; the morning sun was streaming in through the eastern window. "I slept all night?"

"Yes. And I daresay you needed it. You've not slept a full night in quite some time, my dear. Come, I've drawn you a warm bath to start your morning, but don't be too long. You wouldn't want your breakfast to get cold, now would you?"

She rose from the bed and followed him silently. The bathroom was just as luxurious as the rest of the house. Gold inlay and marble tile surrounded her. She lingered in the tub after she'd washed her hair and face with the delightfully scented soaps resting in a little gold basin; the water was the perfect temperature, with just a hint of lavender added to it.

The rumbling of her stomach reminded her that she hadn't had supper before bed. She extricated herself from the bath and donned the long chemise and thick dressing gown Erik had left for her.

A delicious mingling of scents wafted up to her as she descended the stairs. She paused to grasp the railing. There was something, a faint memory tickling the back of her mind. _'It was a grand staircase . . . a party? No, a masque. And -'_

Just as quickly as it had come, the memory faded back into the recesses of her subconscious. It hadn't been much, but it was something, no matter how fleeting. Perhaps she could ask Erik about it later, when she could put into words what had entered her mind. For now, breakfast was beckoning to her, and she would heed the morning's call.


	11. Chapter 11

Christine sat in the shade of a massive tree that had grown in that spot for over a century. It made her feel safe to know that she was underneath something that had withstood such a turbulent part of France's history.

It made her feel safer still to know that Erik was just a few feet away, examining a tree in the orchard. The book she had been reading was lying opened next to her, forgotten when she'd looked up and seen Erik walking along the low brick wall running along the perimeter of the property. She let out a contented sigh and wondered what she had done to deserve a husband as wonderful and doting as Erik.

She gazed down at her hands and wished she could remember more, but that tiny flash of a ball and descending a grand staircase was all she had had since they'd arrived. That had been three days prior. She took solace in the fact that nothing was causing her any worry, apart from the lack of her memory, and she wanted for nothing.

It all seemed too good to be true.

* * *

Raoul awoke with a monster of a headache. Being out at sea, without a way to contact anyone he knew, was not making this voyage any easier. Whoever had hit him on the head and set him about this journey would have much to explain when he found him. And the Vicomte de Chagny was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted as soon as he wanted it.

He would find the culprit and make them pay for what they'd done to him, to Christine!

* * *

Erik ran a tentative finger along the bark of yet another tree. The orchard had been well tended in his absence, and he was pleased with the care his estate had received. Christine was resting and her colour was returning to its former dewy splendour. The ill treatment she had suffered while on the boy's arm was no longer so painfully evident.

Oh, Erik wished he could make him suffer more for what he'd done to the precious Swedish songbird, but arranging a little trip for him would, at least, have him out of the way for a few months. There was no way the fop would find them out here, and none who knew their location would betray them to him.

Erik had his ways of inspiring absolute loyalty.

* * *

Christine settled into a comfortable armchair near the fireplace. Erik had given her a new diary after supper so she could jot down anything she might recall or simply wish to record. He'd said her doctor had told him it might do her some good to write things down, even if she wasn't all that sure of what it was she remembered at the time.

And she knew he was right. Writing it all down in her diary was helping her sort out her jumbled thoughts. The flashes of memory that made their way through her mind were still rather fuzzy, but at least she had a way to keep them ordered and in one place.

She dipped her quill into the little well of ink upon the table beside her and scribbled a few lines on a fresh page. It was merely a few thoughts about what she'd done that day, but it was something. It helped her feel less helpless and lost. She bit her bottom lip as she wondered what else she should put her diary.

She peered into the flames dancing just a few feet from her. They were casting shadows upon the wall, and it sparked an idea. Within moments, she'd penned a poem about dancing and how the darkness could surround her if she let it.

'_Darkness . . . It can stir the imagination in ways I didn't think possible,'_ she added at the bottom of the page. _'But that, I have discovered, can be an amazing thing. The darkness holds such mystery, such promise, such, dare I say it, allure. Yet Erik said that I am still pure. I wonder how long it is we've been married. I doubt it's been more than a few weeks, for it doesn't feel as though we would have waited very long to live fully as man and wife. Or perhaps we wished to wait until after the season was over, to keep my mind on music and not on more . . . lustful pursuits._

_But, if I am not to perform for some time, perhaps we might venture forth in such a manner . . . Would Erik do so? Do I dare take action? Or should I wait until he initiates it?_

_Oh, how I wish I knew about these sorts of things! Surely, I must have heard the other girls speaking on these matters before.'_

She sighed, blew lightly on the paper to dry the ink, then set the book aside. Erik had told her he would be going into town in the morning and did not wish to be disturbed for the rest of the night. It was still early for her, and she needed a way to pass the time until she was sleepy enough to go up to bed herself.

She rose from her chair and stretched. Nanette was in the kitchen, she knew, preparing the dough for the next day's bread, so she didn't want to bother her while she was working. But perhaps she could see if she wanted any help.

When she entered the kitchen, she was struck by how lovely it looked. It was warm and inviting, even more so than it had been the day after they'd arrived. Everything was in perfect order and clean and shining.

Nanette, however, was nowhere to be found. _'Perhaps she went to bed already. She does so much all day,'_ Christine surmised. It appeared that everything was put away and ready for the morning. She shrugged and turned to head back to the library. She would find a book and head upstairs to read. It simply wouldn't do if she fell asleep in an armchair rather than her own bed.

She perused the shelves and settled on a book of Russian fairy tales that looked interesting. She hoped it would help her sleep and have pleasant dreams.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Guest: In Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, written by Gaston Leroux and published 1909-1910 in French newspaper Le Gaulois, Erik has no last name. Even 'Erik' is a name he came upon "by accident". Giving Erik a surname at all is an invention of later writers.  
**_

_**PhantomFan01: Hehehe, yes, he is, but the question remains whether Raoul will actually find them. And how quickly Christine's memory comes back, if at all. We shall see! ;-)**_

_**Gravity01: Yes, I feel bad for him, too, but . . . Oh, it should all make more sense as the story progresses. :-)**_

* * *

_****__**Erik's point of view**_

It was late when I finally heard Christine trudge up the stairs to her bedroom. I had chosen to occupy the room immediately across the hall from the one where we'd passed our first night at the manor. As I had an early start to make in the morning, I preferred not to disturb her slumber when I rose.

The few hours of sleep I managed to get were light but dreamless. Actually, that's not true; there _were_ dreams, but of the surrounding area. I dreamt of walking with Christine around the entire estate and showing her various plants that grew here naturally and the foliage I'd had brought in from foreign lands. It was all rather pleasant, even the sunlight on my skin.

And then I awoke alone, with only the darkness to greet me.

I crossed to the window and gazed out at the stars dotting the sky. My eyes could make out the silhouette of the walls lining the perimeter and the places where hollow stones had been placed by prior owners to house topiaries. My sweet Christine could be happy here, I knew it, and she would be able to add all those little touches that make a house a home. I did not, however, dare dream of how long she would be content to remain out here without other people to talk to besides servants or performing onstage.

And Erik would do anything to make Christine happy. That was why Erik was going into town this morning, to collect the dresses that were ordered to fit her so prettily and buy her some other things Erik thought she might like or need while she recuperated.

* * *

_****__**Christine's point of view**_

When I awoke, it was still and silent throughout the house. I found it a bit unsettling; living in the city, I have grown accustomed to the constant sounds of people busy at all hours. It had to have been quite early, I surmised, as the sun had not yet risen. Indeed, it was still quite dark outside, with only the stars peeking between wispy clouds for illumination. I wondered how long I had managed to sleep, but it was an unimportant detail. The book of fairy tales was strewn across my waist, just as it had been when I'd gone to bed.

It was a bit odd, sleeping alone after having spent the first night here beside Erik. I guessed that he hadn't wanted me to wake him when I went to bed or that he hadn't wished to disturb me when he rose. It made sense, I supposed, but I missed feeling him beside me.

Or maybe I was just lonely because I'd had no one to talk to for much of the afternoon.

_****__**A/N: Short, I know, but I'm trying to get back into the groove of things here, so to speak.**_


	13. Chapter 13

_**Back to third person for a bit**_

Christine stood and stretched luxuriously before reaching for her diary again. She had decided to spend the day in the library writing a story so she could see where her mind went with a little fictional world of her own making.

Unfortunately, she couldn't think of where to begin her story. At first, setting it in Paris or the French countryside had seemed obvious choices, but she couldn't quite form the characters. Then she considered moving the story to Sweden, but it brought up all those memories of her father and the faintest recollections of her mother. It made her too sad to come up with anything; she missed them more than she could express.

But thinking of her parents gave her something to write about. She filled nearly three pages with any little tidbit that crossed her mind about them, from her mother's delicate hands to her father's beard to the smell of bread baking in the oven on Sunday morning.

They were happy memories, to be sure, but it made her long to relive those days. She lamented that she had been so young when her mother had passed and didn't have many memories of her tucked away to keep her company when she needed them.

Spending the day alone was doing nothing to help her melancholic mood. Nanette was busy scrubbing the kitchen while Erik was in town, so she was left to entertain herself. She might have preferred helping Nanette, but Erik had instructed her to make sure Christine rested, and she was loathe to feel as though she were underfoot and in the way.

She sighed wistfully. She knew it was for her own good, but she was getting restless with so little to do. She was accustomed to the hustle and bustle of Paris and nearly always having some place to go or rehearsals to fill her days. She'd always been the sort of girl who had liked doing more than studying. Rather than sit still, perhaps she could try her hand at embroidery. It had been ages since she'd done that, but she remembered enjoying it when she was younger. Or maybe it was spending time with Maman Valerius that she enjoyed.

She wished Maman had been able to accompany them on their trip out to the country, but her health prevented such a journey. As soon as they returned to Paris, however, Christine wanted to go visit with her for a few days. She would have to talk to Erik about that first, of course.

She pouted and sank back into the chaise longue. She had to talk to Erik about every little thing she wanted to do! She was a grown woman, but he was making her feel like a naughty little girl, seeking permission all the time as punishment.

She couldn't help but wonder if, perhaps, she were punished for something she couldn't remember.


	14. Chapter 14

_**A/N: It's such a relief to have figured out what was causing my little problem. Now that I've gone back to putting pen to paper first instead of just tapping out words on the keyboard, I feel far more connected to my writing again.**_

_**Anyway, here's the next chapter. I hope you enjoy it. :-)**_

* * *

**_Raoul's POV_**

I have no idea how long I've been on this vessel. No one seems to want to tell me so much as what day it is. It could be days, or even months, since I was supposed to take my sweetheart out of Paris. I cannot imagine what Christine must be thinking by now. Can she think I would have abandoned her? I promised to take her away from that madman, and I am powerless now to protect her.

What if he's gotten her again? Oh, that thought is more than I can bear! My poor, sweet angel, trapped with a monster far below the opera house once more! No! He has taken advantage of her innocent nature to delude her into believing he was the Angel of Music, sent by her father, and I can't fathom for what purpose someone would ever do such a thing.

Perhaps she managed to make her way to my carriage once her performance was over, after all, and she made her way to safety. Yes, she is a resourceful girl. Surely, she must have made her way back to Madame Valerius and is, even now, patiently awaiting my return.

* * *

**_Erik's POV_**

At last, I have received word regarding the Vicomte. He was accosted, as planned, as he left the opera house that same night my Christine returned to me. He was rendered unconscious and deposited on a ship that set out to meet the very ship whose crew he was to join for a Polar expedition.

Silly boy. Had he said nothing to my virginal bride of his plans for that voyage, I might not have devised this particular scheme.

And his brother was so co-operative, as well!

"_Raoul plans to elope with a chorus girl," I informed Philippe in a darkened room._

"_Never!" he insisted. "She is merely an amusement for him, a way to pass the time. Surely, he only wishes to take her out to the country for a holiday. He knows I'll not allow him to marry so far beneath his station! It is impossible!"_

I had chuckled briefly at that. Christine is so far above the both of them as to make his comment nothing more than a silly, arrogant lie. They were not worthy of her company, they both knew it, and that was merely Philippe's way of comforting himself.

Besides, Christine would wither away if she were forbidden to perform publicly. Music is her soul.

"_Impossible, of course. What of his journey to the Arctic?" I'd asked casually, probing for more information._

_Philippe had sighed then. "Yes, his desire for adventure still colours his plans. Whether he'd still go if he were to marry the girl, I don't know. It might be easier to just get him out of Paris and put him on the boat! He needs to get away so he can put her out of his mind again. What my little brother is thinking, fancying himself in love with a girl he knew ages ago . . ."_

"_That could be arranged, Monsieur le Comte," I'd murmured. "Sending him off a bit early, that is." He'd unwittingly given me permission to set a plan into motion._

"_Indeed? It would have to be quite soon, I imagine. I believe he wishes to head out after her upcoming performance in Faust."_

Oh, it was ridiculously easy to arrange the fop's little journey that very night. With him so completely out of the way and no questions in need of answers regarding why he so suddenly left Paris, I can concentrate on my darling wife's health.

* * *

**_Christine's POV_**

Erik has been gone all day. He had promised to be back before nightfall. To keep myself busy, I've spent the afternoon rearranging a few little knick-knacks here and there throughout the house. I helped Nanette change the linens in the morning, which she was only too happy to allow me to do. She reasoned that it's not heavy work, but I know that such large bedsheets are far easier for two to manage. She refused to permit me to help with much else beyond some of the dusting; that's when I'd decided to move a few things.

I chopped some vegetables for supper, as well as some fruit for pies. Since then, I've been in the library, poring over history books and books on architecture and one rather old tome filled with sheet music. They were songs beyond my vocal range, though.

I do hope Erik returns home soon. I've been rather lonely for him. He works so hard and so rarely rests. I worry about him and his health, particularly when I know how little he eats. When he does eat anything at all, that is.

And supper smells absolutely wonderful!


	15. Chapter 15

_**A/N: Yikes, it was over a month since my last update to this story! I do apologise for that, but a lack of sufficiently dark moods had impaired my ability to delve into this for a while. I think, however, with cooler temperatures coming, my muse is returning, as she is wont to do in these autumn and winter months.**_

* * *

_**Erik**_

With my business in town taken care of, I ventured to a shop to procure a small vase I'd notice earlier. It was red with gold trim, and I hoped Christine would like it. While there, I noticed they also sold small boxes of Turkish delight.

I haven't had Turkish delight in ages, and the mere sight of it made my mouth water. Christine enjoys her sweets, so I thought to purchase two boxes as well as a small box of those gooey chocolates filled with assorted nuts and caramel.

How she can stand to eat those things, I will never know! The one time she convinced me to try one, the sugary concoction became lodged in my teeth. Not that she ever knew that, of course. I'd made a show of pretending to enjoy the damned thing before she had scurried off to bed, pleased with the thought that she'd managed to get me to eat something that day.

I shudder to recall how sickeningly sweet that piece of candy was. It had taken a full six cups of stronger-than-my-usual tea before the taste was gone from my mouth and the stickiness had left my lips.

Perhaps I would wait for another day to purchase those chocolates.

* * *

_**Christine**_

I am growing rather impatient. Supper is very nearly ready - or so Nanette told me a few minutes ago - and Erik still has not returned! The sun will soon begin its descent towards the horizon and the light already grows dimmer by the minute. If my husband does not arrive back soon, I shall simply have to start supper without him.

After all the times he reprimanded me for being late for one of our lessons or lingering too long in bed, I would think that timeliness was one of his more ingrained habits. Or it might be that he expects everyone else to adhere to his schedule.

Linger? Bed? I spent three weeks in the house by the lake beneath the opera house.

Was that a memory returning?

The stew Nanette is making is making my mouth water.

Oh, my head aches and I feel dizzy. I think I should lie down until Erik returns home. Yes, I'll just rest my head against the armrest of the sofa and close my eyes. Just for a moment . . .

* * *

_**Erik**_

It shan't take me very long to get from town to the manor. I suppose my dear Christine might be growing upset at my tardiness, but I hope my little gifts will help to assuage her anger.

The way home is a long, straight stretch of sandy road, cobbled with grey stones from a nearby quarry. It's easy to get lost in one's thoughts with the sound of the brougham's wheels and the horse's hooves click-clacking against the stones. I could almost make out a melody in the rhythmic -

I had to shake myself to keep from falling asleep. Though my driver knows the way, my wife would be more upset if I showed up asleep as well as late. She might think something unseemly had happened during the afternoon, and I cannot have her not trusting me.

Her trust is far too valuable to me.


	16. Chapter 16

_**A/N: I've put nearly all of my fics on hiatus due to simple burn-out. I've been spreading myself too thinly lately, and so I need to step back and clear my head.**_

_**Then again, writing phanphiction helps clear my head of the crap that's in here, so I'll still be working on this and BIDKYM, It's just that I'll be taking my time getting new chapters posted (which is why I have added "On hiatus" to the description of all my in-progress fics).**_

_**I appreciate your understanding, patience, and the feedback/reviews you've given me so far.**_

* * *

_Erik's POV_

When I finally arrived home, I found Christine resting on one of the chaise longues just a few steps from the dining area. She looks exquisite when she sleeps.

I planted a soft kiss upon her golden brow and roused her from her slumber.

She smiled up at me sleepily. "You're late," she murmured.

"It could not be helped, my dear. I stopped to get you this." I pulled the box out from where I'd been concealing it with my cloak.

She feigned disinterest in my little gift. "Do you truly believe, dear husband, that you can _bribe_ me not to be upset by your late arrival?"

"I must admit to having hoped that, yes."

She smirked as she began untying the pretty ribbon the salesgirl had taken such care to affixing. I'd not seen the point of such a frivolous adornment until I took notice of the glimmer in Christine's clear blue eyes. Those extra minutes I had spent waiting for this box to be wrapped were worth it just to see that look on her face again.

* * *

_Christine's POV_

Erik was later than he'd thought he'd be that evening. I was upset, of course, but he bought me a lovely little vase and a bouquet of flowers to assuage my anger. His eyes shone like gold rings in the black recesses of his mask.

_His mask._

What was it about his mask? He'd said something to me about it the first time he took me down to his home beneath the opera house.

What was it? I was not to touch it . . . I would have nothing to fear from him provided I never removed his mask. Yes, I think that was what he said that first night that I knew him as a man and not my angel.

"It's lovely, Erik. Thank you. Where shall we put it?"

"That is for the lady of the house to decide." I had the distinct impression he was laughing at me behind that mask.

I averted my eyes as though I were pondering the best location for his gift. "Perhaps . . . in the library?"

"The library?"

"Yes. Where we sit and read. That way, I may gaze upon it every afternoon."

He nodded once in agreement, then we settled in for supper.

* * *

_Erik's POV_

Christine hardly spoke for the rest of the evening. The little she did say was merely to request something be passed, such as the butter or more wine. I was unsure if her demeanour was due to still being upset with my tardiness or if she were simply tired.

No matter. We would go up to bed soon and retire for the night. She _was_ supposed to be resting, after all. I would see to it that nothing disturbed her sleep that night.


End file.
